


Wild Streets

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29691771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: It started out innocuous enough, a small little touch, a little glance.
Relationships: Jon Bon Jovi/Original Female Character(s), Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Wild Streets

**I.**

It started out innocuous enough, a small little touch, a little glance. John appreciated the attention at first, doing what his mother called 'preening like a peacock' at the looks, the appreciative little glances from the women. John didn't think that it would escalate, and didn't want it to escalate, but the thoughts didn't cross his mind for awhile yet, not until he was fifteen years old, and doing jobs on the side for extra money. 

That's when it escalated. That's when the ladies who regularly had tea with his mother and discussed their books around the table, the ladies who clutched their pearls and went to Church and squeezed his brothers' cheeks and chuckled amongst themselves about how cute they were, decided that he was old enough. 

Looking back on it, John would've thought about how truly innocent he'd been. At that point, he'd thought that he'd known everything that there was to know, that the magazines that he and David would steal from the corner market held all the secrets, but, God, he hadn't known a damn thing. 

**II.**

Mrs. Donovan needed her fence painted. She was offering twenty bucks, thirty if he didn't get paint on the grass. John agreed, because he needed money to buy tickets to the movie theater, and his parents weren't exactly raising a moocher. 

As John had been putting his sneakers on, David had looked at him with that weary gaze in his eyes that suggested that he was about to say something that he knew would make an impact. "I don't think you should go." David said, shoving his glasses further up his nose with the topic his index finger. 

"Easy for you to say." John replied. "Your parents have more money to throw to their kids than mine do." He stood up, brushed the dirt from his jeans. 

"Oh, I'll buy you a ticket. I just don't think you should go." David was getting increasingly persistent. "Some older kid said that Mrs. Donovan is a-" He broke off suddenly, and hesitated. 

"What?" John quirked one of his eyebrows. "An old lady with way too much time on her hands?" He said with a smirk. 

"She has _sex -_ with - she had sex with Tommy Rosenberg and made him swear on his life not to tell her husband." David hissed, his teeth clenched. "Why do you think I've always avoided her, huh?" His eyes were as wide as saucers. 

"Because...you believe whatever shit that Tommy Rosenburg spouts." John swung his leg over his bike. "I'll see you later, man." He said, because there was no way that he was going to let David's weird anxiety stop him from making money. 

**III**

Things went fine at first. John painted the fence a bright, sunny, yellow that made his eyes burn at the mere sight, and Mrs. Donovan brought him a glass of ice cold lemonade, even though it wasn't hot, not really. John sat and stood and crouched, and he could feel Mrs. Donovan's eyes on him. 

But instead of the weird smugness and pleasure that usually came, John felt strange. Scared. He frowned at himself, assuring the frightened parts of his mind that it was nothing. David was just paranoid, and John figured that HR would be in and out. Paint, grab the money, go. 

Mrs. Donovan wouldn't do shit, John tried to assure himself, but as he put the metal tin back over the can of paint, he suddenly felt sick. _'Just leave. Ask David if he'll buy you a ticket, take him up on his fucking offer.'_ John paused, and shoved the sudden thoughts away. ' _I won't beg.'_

As the paint dried under the cold Autumn sun, John walked back toward the house and lightly knocked on the back, sliding glass door. He chewed nervously on the inside of his bottom lip as he waited for an answer, and then a familiar lumpy shape appeared, and Mrs. Donovan was smiling, and John felt more than scared. He felt terrified, less like the adult he tried to be and more like the child that he actually was. 

"It's done." John said, and his words sounded hollow. 

"Oh, well, that was quick." Mrs. Donovan had a robe on, and it was fluffy and pink.

"Um, I should be going, so I need my...payment." John shifted around awkwardly. 

Mrs. Donovan smiled slowly. "Here, come inside. I'll get your money, honey." She turned around and walked away, but John didn't want to go in there. He didn't want to do anything but leave, but he didn't have any other option. 

**IV**

Logically, John knew that being paid wasn't important enough, that he should've just gone home, but he just continued to stand there, waiting for Mrs. Donovan to stop rattling around in her purse because he just wanted to go home. He felt very, very alone, and he was trying not to think too much about the bad stuff that he as making his heart pound painfully against his ribcage. 

"Oh, wait, I think my wallet is in the bedroom." Mrs. Donovan pressed her hand against her chest, right above her heart. She smiled, exasperated, but her eyes looked cold. Mrs. Donovan started to walk away, but then she paused. "Come with me." She said. 

"Why?" John wondered if he should run, but that felt cowardly, and he wasn't that sort of person. 

"I have something to show you." Mrs. Donovan walked away, her bare feet soundless on the soft carpet, and she knew that John would follow. His brain was on autopilot, but his movement was slow as he followed the woman who he felt scared of down the hallway. 

' _There's nothing to be afraid of. She's older than mom!'_ John stopped in the threshold of the doorway. "What is it?" He asked. 

"Come, sit down." Mrs. Donovan sat down on the bed and lightly pat the spot next to her. She had just painted her nails, and they were bright red.

' _Devil.'_ John thought. 

Mrs. Donovan waited patiently for a minute, but John couldn't move and he wouldn't move, and she seemed to recognize that. She sighed, and tilted her head, soft blonde curls rolled off of her shoulder. "Have you ever had sex?" She asked, and John flinched. 

Slowly, John shook his head. 

"No? A handsome boy like you...I would've expected you, too." Mrs. Donovan was still smiling. "Would you ever _liikee_ to have sex?" 

Of course John wanted to have sex, but he was fifteen years old, and he played the French horn and sang in the choir and didn't want to have sex now. But he sensed that he was supposed to say yes, so he slowly bobbed his head, up and down, like a robot. 

Mrs. Donovan smirked. John wanted to hurt her. "Would you like to have sex with me?" She asked. "Do you want to feel me, honey? Touch me?" She thrust her chest foward. 

John stayed silent, frozen, immobile. 

"C'mere." Mrs. Donovan beckoned for John to step closer, and he did. 

**V**

John didn't know what the fuck he was doing. He had shy and scared and suddenly very, very frozen by the fear that was coursing through his veins. 

Eager to keep it going, Mrs. Donovan directed him, like a maestro. She told him what to do and how to do it, but sometimes John didn't do it fast enough, or he did it wrong. John didn't know half the time, maybe she just liked to hear him whine in pain whenever she got angry and smacked him. 

"Do you like this?" Mrs. Donovan asked. "Do you like this?" 

John didn't like this, not at all. 

**VI**

Mr. Bongiovi was reading the newspaper, half-listening as his two younger sons played upstairs, arguing over some ridiculous, unimportant thing, and he heard the door be unlocked, opened, and then it shut. His wife was at her sister's, and wasn't due home for another few hours. 

"John? Is that you?" Mr. Bongiovi said, even though he knew that his son would be the only person who would, logically, be home. He looked up from his newspaper, and he could hear breathing, steady and low, but no response we came. "John?" 

A tense silence followed Mr. Bongiovi's question, one that was unlike his son, who didn't speak much but usually took the time to entertain his father with a retelling about what had happened during his day, usually involving his strange friend, David. But John was silent, and Mr. Bongiovi wasn't sure about whether he was supposed to be concerned or not. 

Finally, footsteps echoed on the wood, and John came into view. His mousy brown hair was mussed and falling into his face, which was firm and stoic, but his eyes, those blue eyes that Mr. Bongiovi knew all too well, were breaking, and the world fell apart as easily as it was held together. 

**\---------------------------------**

**VII**

Richie was tall, and he was sweet, and he was funny, albeit in that weird, crass way that Jon usually didn't entertain, except there was a certain shine in Richie's dark brown eyes that made Jon smile, and Richie was talented, and he was like the next Jimi Hendrix. 

"Except," Richie said. "I ain't no Jimi." He struck a chord on his guitar, and a dull _twang_ echoed throughout the room. 

"Oh, please." Jon smiled. 

The smile pulled at Jon's lips, and he felt unnatural, but it felt _good,_ especially when Richie grinned back. "I've never seen you smile before." Richie said, reaching out to lightly shove Jon's shoulder. 

Jon looked down, a little embarrassed. But Richie was still grinning so widely that he seemed to never stop. "No, it's cute. You look..." Richie hesitated. "Really pretty when you smile." 

**VII**

Alec was leaning against the wall, smoking lazily, and Tico was standing beside him, talking to each other in low voices. David was looking up at the sky, smiling softly as the light caught in his eyes. 

"Do you think we're gonna make it?" Richie asked. "Like, really make it?" 

"Yes." Jon said. "We're gonna make it." 

With a small smile, Richie leaned into Jon, and Jon, startled, recoiled toward the wall. The small action caught David's eye, and David frowned before turning back to the stars again. He didn't wear glasses anymore, and Jon felt a pang in his heart. He wasn't sure why. 

"You always do that." Richie said, and he didn't sound disappointed, just curious. 

"Sorry." Jon said. 

"No...do I make you uncomfortable?" Richie didn't sound like he wanted to know the answer to his soft-spoken question. "Tell me the truth, Jonny." Richie glanced at the others, at Tico and Alec and David, and then returned his soft eyes back toward Jon. 

"It isn't you." Jon replied. "It's just...you scared me." 

"I always scare you." Richie pointed out. 

"Bad memories." 

**XI**

"Can I kiss you?" Richie said. "I mean..." 

Jon looked up sharply. His fingers froze on the notebook, and he suddenly felt very scared again. All of a sudden, he wasn't nineteen anymore. He was fifteen, and there was a woman towering over him, and she was asking if he'd ever had sex, and Jon didn't know how to answer. "What?" He whispered. 

Hesitating, Richie looked at his knees, and shrugged. "I like you, Jonny." He confessed. "And I know that you like me, too. My mom always says that the eyes are the window to the soul, and that's true...with you." He paused. "But I didn't wanna scare you, like I usually do, so I thought I'd ask, and..." He trailed off. 

The silence was tense, and Jon didn't know how to break it. He knew, in reality, that if he just got up and left, that Richie would let him. But a small, primal part of him wanted to get up and run far, far away and felt like, if he did, then Richie would grab him and wouldn't let him go. 

"Um." Jon looked away. He held his breath for five seconds, and then let it go, and the weight in his chest decreased slightly. 

"I'm sorry." Richie said. "I don't - you - do you want me to go?" 

"No." Jon shook his head. "Just give me a minute." 

"You don't have to." Richie said quickly. "God, you don't have to. Don't feel pressured or whatever, man." 

Jon didn't know how to tell Richie that he did want to kiss him, more than anything, but he was just scared. Four years and too many scars to count, and the reasonable part of Jon told him that David had probably warned Richie about something, and Jon wanted to laugh but he didn't want to seem even crazier. 

Richie was sweet and he was happy and Jon liked him. Richie liked him back. Jon wanted to kiss him and _feel_ him, and Richie wanted to do that, too, but Jon couldn't do that, and Richie would understand that. But Jon could do something else, and he smiled. 

Taking a deep breath, Jon leaned foward, unwinding his legs, and he slowly reached out. Richie's shirt was rough inside of Jon's fist, and, for a minute, it was unresisting, and then Richie went easily, eagerly, and he reached out to lightly press his hand against Jon's cheek, and they kissed.


End file.
